the mansion
by Lena Ban Obsidian
Summary: Dressing in drag proves dangerous for our robust blond hero...


_the mansion_  
  
Lena

Notes: Cloud in drag. Bad Lena, bad. X3 

* * *

In retrospect, he should have known better than to agree with a conniving girl, and especially he should have insisted on wearing his weapons, not just his clothes, beneath the dress. He should have seen the way that the doorman's eyes gleamed speculatively when he'd returned, wig in place, dress and (heaven help him) padding secure. 

He should have gone for the Don's throat the moment the girls and himself had been brought in for inspection, not allowed himself to be taken downstairs away from Aeris and Tifa, when at least the former of the two was more or less defenseless. He should have, and he hadn't, and now he was going to pay. 

All this he realized in the brief second before the men, who'd ganged up on him once they realized he was not female, knocked him down, some raining angry punches down on him, others securing his wrists above his head and twisting them when he made the motions of trying to fight back. It wasn't too many minutes before even an ex-SOLDIER's endurance ran low, and he was senseless by the time they'd vented their anger enough to stop. He lay still, head spinning, stomach and chest aching, each breath struggling against the broken ribs he'd acquired. 

He wasn't going anywhere. 

"Nasty sonuva bitch," growled one of the burlier fellows, who had straddled him during the first attack and now sat on the edge of their pool table. "Fuckin' thought we were gonna have fun tonight." 

Cloud Strife was not currently in residence behind his intense mako-burned eyes, and neither responded, nor paid attention. The pain had his attention; he'd forgotten about the ones who caused it, for now. 

One of the two standing near his head kicked him lightly with the steel-tipped toe of a boot. "Dunno, he's kinda pretty." Murmurs rose from the others, as they considered the slightly bruised body at their feet, now stripped of his disguise and dignity. 

"He is, at that." 

"Sounds sweet enough." 

The leader of their lot, a swarthy, practical man, began to smile. "Do you suppose he cries prettily?" 

That was all it took to catch the interest of those few who hadn't initially liked the idea. As one, they stripped him of his shirt and pants, tossing the clothing into a corner of the room. The boots, shiny black and half to his knees, made poetic contrast with his ivory-colored skin, so they left them on. His suspenders they used to bind his wrists, and then through wordless conference they decided to throw him down on the pool table on his stomach. 

He winced, coming back to himself with a sickening heave, tears pricking his eyes, and tried to move only to find himself secured by callused hands, stronger for their greater numbers and their position than he. Hands tied too tightly clenched useless before his face; he growled his anger and gave one great kick. 

Laughter answered his attempt, as all of his weight came suddenly down on his ribs. Screaming, he tried to roll to the side to spare himself, and found that he was immobile, the subdued chuckles of his captors making his cheeks burn with shame. 

A hand ran possessively up his leg as they readjusted his position to the perfect height. "Don't worry, pretty, it goes quickly enough." 

"Let me go!" He growled, hoping that his voice didn't crack, hoping the tears hadn't roughened the tone of it to a whimper. Cloud Strife was not one to take capture lightly, and there was still Tifa to worry about, not to mention Aeris, locked away in Don Corneo's room. 

Laughter answered him, and someone brought a heavy hand down on his backside, making him jump, surprised and angry. "You gotta earn it, pretty boy." 

Flushed, he struggled to pull free, ignoring the pain of his ribs, grinding into the felt surface of the pool table. "Earn it...?" He managed, gasping, voice weak with fighting when he knew he could not win. 

Another slap answered him. "That's right, earn it. We're all hard-working guys, we deserve a little downtime, and you waltzed in here looking for trouble. So if you'll be a good boy," The speaker delivered another hard slap to his rear, and he held back his wince, gritting his teeth against the indignation. "We'll let you go after we're done." 

Roaring in outrage, he bucked against their hands again, only to be spanked by as many hands as could land on his flesh. The motion put undue pressure on the broken ribs again, and he sagged, the pain making his bones feel watery and useless. Someone had the bright idea to strike him with one of the cues until he'd been calm for several minutes, each assault sending a brief screaming jolt of pain through him, the sound of the wood hitting his flesh a soft slap that echoed in the little room. He screamed at first, cursing them and their perversions, but his voice was a raw whimper by the time they began running their hands over him again. 

The voice he associated with the word 'leader' addressed him again, suffused with excitement, as the sounds of pants being lowered rustled through the room. "Comfortable?" The dull ache of his bruised stomach and the throb of his ribs became unbearable when he swallowed, thickly, before answering. 

"...go fuck yourself." 

No answer, save a quick pinch of his ass, and he felt the terror of being helpless rise in his throat. He tried to quell it, but with the first, jarring thrust forward, it burst from him in the form of a frightened scream. They laughed and pet him on all sides while their leader plundered his body, telling him in soothing voices that it was not really so bad, while the motions, forward back, forward back, ground his stomach and ribs into the table, the hard edge pressing into his gut, his own organ slapping against the table, listless yet. 

Systematically, they raped him, taking turns in gentlemanly fashion, eventually tying his legs to the legs of the table with what they could find lying around so that those not involved could simply watch, waiting their turn. He screamed and didn't know what he screamed, or how long, until his voice wouldn't produce screams anymore. He begged while they kept at it, some defiling him twice, three times, depending on their stamina. His voice was raw and lower by an octave than usual when they began to tire of the entertainment, his body shivering, his hands and legs numb. 

The leader finally walked to the other end of the table and laid down his head to look him in the eyes, some time after they'd finished. They stared at each other for several long moments, and he knew there were tears in his eyes but he could not, for the life of him, keep them in check. A slow smile spread over the man's face as he watched him, and Cloud felt the fear rise in a chill up his spine. 

"Not so bad, is it, pretty boy?" Asked the man in a much sated, smug voice. 

He couldn't answer, but closed his eyes in rejection of the situation. Behind him, another of the group ran a hand beneath him to the erection that had formed all of its own will as they had their fill of him. Gasping, he tried to pull away, failing miserably, the friction making him weak with need. The one standing before him only laughed, tousling his hair, clearly aware of what his comrade had found. 

Like a pack of wolves, they all became interested again, and it seemed all of their hands itched to tease at his aching erection until he moaned in answer. "Stop..." 

They did, and their curiosity hung in the air, waiting for him to continue. "Would you rather suffer, pretty boy?" He shook his head, biting his lip to suppress a groan as someone ghosted fingers up the length of him. "What do you want? More?" 

Not waiting for an answer, they unfastened his legs from the table and lifted him between them all, holding him almost upright. His head rolled to the side, his muscles not allowing him the luxury of looking tough. Their faces swam before him, nausea twisting his stomach in warning. He was surprised he hadn't passed out yet. 

"Answer me," said one of the voices, unfamiliar in his confusion. He tried to find the source, but they were all formless. His eyes slid closed. "Do you want to finish this?" 

"This?" His voice said, though he wasn't sure his mouth moved. A hand closed about the erection pressing into his belly and he jerked away, body spasming, a low cry breaking from his throat. A thousand answers flashed through his mind, but in the end they were all the same: yes, I ache so hard it hurts, please god please, make it stop, do it, DO IT... 

Something in his eyes or his face must have shown what he couldn't put in words, and they laughed softly, caressing him almost lovingly, and passed him over to the strongest man present, who lifted him by his waist. "Brace yourself," whispered the man in his ear, almost apologetic, and brought him down full onto his erection. The sensation of being filled had long since lost its novelty, but something about being hugged back into the man's chest made it different. 

His body was still, tense with the need to release, as the others watched lazily, smiles on their faces. The man holding him moved slowly, gently, as none had before, and the friction within was enough that his hands twitched in reaction, the sweat that had covered him dripping down legs hanging open in exhaustion. They moved together, his body molded back against the other man's, hips snapping back to impale himself further. It hurt, he knew that the fluid painted along his thighs was not entirely semen, and yet it was making him breathless, making him croon needily, making his vision go white with the warning of something powerful about to happen. 

Everything clenched, except his eyes, which went wide, pupils contracting. He came with a soundless cry, violently, shuddering, sobbing, ejaculate spraying up his stomach in hot release, and saw nothing but stars. Vaguely, he was aware of the wry cheers of his captors, and of the man still driving into him, finally emptying into him several minutes later. He breathed raggedly, unseeing yet, and didn't resist as they set him down to clean themselves. The touch of warm wet cloth on his skin roused him only enough to blink tears from his eyes, as they untied his hands, wiped him roughly down and handed him his clothes. 

"If you're here in the morning, we'll take it as invitation to keep you," warned the leader of the group smugly as they filed out to seek other entertainment. "I'll leave the door unlocked in case you'd like to leave." 

He lay there, staring into space, clothes resting beside him in a heap, and summoned first the energy to sit and then the will to move, pulling on the shirt first and then his pants. The suspenders were hard to refasten, perhaps because his hands were shaking so badly, but he managed to pull a potion from his reserve and drained it, giving himself only a moment afterward before he tried to stand. 

It didn't work. His legs buckled at first, dropping him to his knees repeatedly, until he gave up and crawled over to the loathsome table, using it to lever himself up, leaning heavily against it as the world darkened and his stomach did a rough jig. Gritting his teeth, he pulled another potion and drank until the world steadied enough that he could walk. Stumbling only slightly, he left the room and started up the stairs to the Don's room, gripping the banister for dear life. 

He paused outside the door, leaning his forehead against it, gathering himself and struggling to catch his breath. Casting a Cure over himself was out of the question; he might need it in there, where there was trouble waiting. If he just gave it a few moments, he would be able to handle this, no problem. He took a slow, deep breath. 

Cloud Strife entered the Don's bedroom and acted like nothing had ever happened. 

* * *

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